If Dr. Genus had harbored ulterior motives, Jordan reflected, the House of Evolution would have been rubble several months ago. The Mind Network would have caught it. The intervention would have been brief.
The fact that it was still here—in fact, now ten times larger than before and equipped with a modular terrain floor—was its own form of evidence.
He let the quiet extension of his biomagnetic field do its work, the steady low-frequency presence of it smoothing the residual tension in the room the way a warm room smooths cold muscles. Dr. Genus exhaled once, adjusted his glasses, and returned to the briefing.
"The Asura Mode," he said.
The original Carnage Kabuto had reached its peak in berserk state—a transformation that had elevated an already Dragon-level bio-weapon into something that had given even Jordan a moment's pause. The enhancement multiplier was substantial. The cost was a loss of discrimination so complete that the activated subject attacked anything within range, including its own side.
That cost was the entire problem.
Dr. Genus's proposal was elegant in the way that the best scientific solutions are elegant: don't fight the mechanism, redirect it. The gene fragments responsible for the bloodthirst and the violence were identifiable as distinct sequences. Remove them. Replace with stabilizing regulators. What remained was the transformation architecture itself—the power increase, the physical enhancement, the second-phase activation—minus the part that made it a liability to anyone standing nearby.
"The enhancement ratio will be lower than the original," Dr. Genus acknowledged. "And the duration shorter. That's unavoidable when you remove the aggression cascade that was driving the output."
"How much lower?"
"Based on current modeling—approximately sixty to seventy percent of the original multiplier. Still a substantial transformation."
Jordan turned this over.
A sixty-percent-efficiency version of a transformation that had pushed a Dragon-level organism into territory that had required serious effort to handle. Applied to seven superhumans who were already above A-Class baseline, with reserve space in their gene sequences allocated for exactly this kind of upgrade.
He gave the doctor a firm thumbs-up.
"Build it."
Dr. Genus permitted himself a small, satisfied smile. The kind that appeared on scientists when someone with authority recognized that an idea was genuinely good.
Beside him, F-boy adjusted his jacket cuffs. His expression was professionally neutral. Somewhere in the information flow of Jordan's Mind Network, an indicator registered: Copy confirmed. Standing by.
From this point forward, Jordan thought, every member of the House of Evolution has a second form.
Carnage Kabuto created one ultimate weapon. Dr. Genus is creating an army of them.
"While we're on the subject of remarkable biological compounds," Jordan said, and snapped his fingers.
The sealed clay jar appeared from card-space and landed in his palms. He set it on the table and gestured for a clone to bring a clean container.
Under Dr. Genus's puzzled gaze—the expression of a man who had not expected the inspection visit to include a show-and-tell segment—Jordan carefully tipped the jar and let a handful of dried, shriveled beans roll into the container.
They looked like old grape skins. Unimpressive. The kind of thing that might be found in the back of a pantry from three years ago.
"These are Senzu Beans," Jordan said, and gave the brief version: complete recovery from any injury, full stamina restoration, ten days' sustenance from a single bean. Standard dosing, exceptional results.
Dr. Genus looked at the beans.
Then he picked one up and turned it over between his fingers with the attention he gave to anything that presented as an interesting problem.
"The biochemical mechanism..."
"That's what I need you to figure out," Jordan said. "The Miniature Bean Plantation samples I provided earlier have the growing medium. These are the finished product. Between the two, you should have enough to work backward from."
The doctor's expression had shifted entirely into the mode Jordan recognized from their early meetings: the look of a man who has been handed a puzzle that is genuinely worth his time. The wicked smile that remained in his features from decades of self-styling as a villainous genius had been replaced, temporarily, by something cleaner.
Pure scientific interest.
"If the active compound can be synthesized or cultivated at scale," Dr. Genus said, half to himself, "and the regeneration mechanism understood..."
"Disaster survivors," Jordan said. "Field medics. Anyone operating in situations where conventional treatment isn't available. That's the priority use case."
The doctor nodded slowly, already somewhere else mentally.
He recovered enough to gesture at Mosquito Girl, who was standing at parade rest near the door, and suggest—with the confidence of a man who had grown accustomed to making unusual proposals and having them assessed on their practical merits—that she might be a useful domestic addition to Jordan's living arrangements.
Jordan declined, citing his current housing situation.
He did not mention Saitama specifically, but his expression communicated the general shape of the problem: that introducing a two-meter-wingspan maid with compound eyes and horns into an apartment already containing a progressively-baldening man who was heading toward godhood by accident would generate complications that Jordan was not prepared to manage.
Mosquito Girl received both the proposal and the rejection with professional equanimity, straightened her apron, and resumed her position.
It was dusk by the time Jordan arrived back in Z-City.
Specifically: 17:50, which he confirmed by the wall clock above the television, which was currently showing the disaster channel at low volume. In front of the television, Saitama was arranged on the tatami with the posture of a man in complete equilibrium with his surroundings—reclined, unhurried, newspaper held at reading distance. A pot of tea and a small arrangement of pastries occupied the coffee table. The pastries, by their texture and the particular smell that reached Jordan before he'd fully cleared the balcony threshold, were Genos's work.
Jordan landed, changed into slippers, reached over Saitama's shoulder, and helped himself to a piece.
It was good. He had a second.
—You walked in, deliberately didn't acknowledge the pastries, then took two of them and made a noise about it, didn't you.
Saitama picked up his teacup and blew on it.
"Don't bother looking," he said. "Nobody's home but me. Genos left this morning—apparently his professor called him in for equipment work."
Jordan paused mid-reach for a third piece.
"Already?"
"That's what he said."
Jordan did the arithmetic. Jordan had delivered the biological upgrade technology to Dr. Kuseno two days ago. The man had apparently reviewed it, processed it, developed an implementation plan, notified Genos, and begun the procedure within forty-eight hours of receiving materials.
He thought of Bulma identifying an alien spacecraft's propulsion system before breakfast. He thought of Dr. Brief producing a functional gravity chamber in what had appeared to be a weekend. He looked at the pastries.
Anime scientists operate on a timeline that is completely divorced from any relationship with how science actually works, and yet somehow everything they build functions perfectly.
The OPM government research teams I handed the energy weapon prototypes to, by contrast, have had them for months and still send me progress reports that read like they're describing the items for the first time.
He'd given them the weapons in good faith. The good faith had not been reciprocated in kind.
Jordan ate the third pastry.
"So neither of us is cooking tonight."
Saitama put down his teacup. "Neither of us bought groceries either."
A silence developed. Jordan looked at Saitama. Saitama looked at Jordan. The tea cooled slightly. Outside, Z-City began its evening transition from afternoon light to the particular amber that preceded proper dark.
The shared understanding that neither of them was going to solve this problem through personal effort settled over the room with the comfortable weight of a conclusion that both parties had reached independently and were simply now acknowledging.
It's Genos's fault.
The thought arrived in both of them at the same moment, with the clean inevitability of a truth too obvious to require discussion.
He made it too easy. Now neither of us remembers how to do this without him.
Somewhere in W-City, in Dr. Kuseno's research facility on the outskirts, Genos was lying back on an equipment table while the doctor worked on his internal systems.
He sneezed.
They both looked at each other.
Dr. Kuseno, who had been in the middle of integrating a new spatial-compression system into Genos's frame, set down his tools with the careful concern of a man whose patient had just displayed a symptom that did not match any of his documentation. He was fairly certain he hadn't installed anything that would produce a sneeze. He was now less certain.
"Genos," he said carefully. "Have you been feeling unwell?"
Genos considered this for exactly one second, with the sincere application of attention that characterized his approach to all questions he deemed worth answering properly.
"The kinetic energy transmission in my lower limbs has been slightly sluggish," he said. "Most likely insufficient lubricant at the joint interfaces."
Dr. Kuseno looked at him for a moment.
"...That's not what I—"
"I can schedule a maintenance flush this week if you'd like to handle it while I'm already here."
The doctor rubbed his forehead and returned to the spatial-compression integration.
Half an hour later, as the wall clock pushed toward 18:30 and the kitchen remained entirely unvisited, Jordan arrived at the solution.
"The Hero Association VIP restaurant." He stroked his chin. "S-Class heroes eat free. I'm fairly sure they have hot pot."
Saitama went from horizontal to upright in the approximate time it takes to say the word hot pot.
"Let's go."